


Behind the Iron Curtain

by GypsyxBlue



Category: captain america: the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Graphic Violence, Not a romance, Sexual Content, bamf female character, desolation and war, everyone has an ulterior motive, possible crossover in some chapters, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:19:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GypsyxBlue/pseuds/GypsyxBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valkyrie is an ex-SHIELD agent turned gun for hire after the battle for New York.  When an annonymous benefactor contacts her with an impossible job and coveted information on her long lost past, she finds herself between a rock and a hard place.  When everyone is the enemy, who can you trust?  Her mission: find the Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Iron Curtain

She entered the abandoned room quietly, checking the space behind the door to ensure it was indeed empty. It was a good location; 360 degree visibility, decent cover, numerous escape routes, and shuttered windows. It made her job easier and she left the door open as she moved forward to set up. She was meticulous in her work, checking and double checking each individual piece of the .50 caliber rifle she was assembling. She took her time, adjusting the scope and taking note of the conditions.  


The sun was behind her, offering near perfect visbility of her target. The wind, 5-8 out of the south, not a problem. She loaded the behemoth, one in the chamber and one in the clip that she liked to call "the backup plan." She checked her watch; 10 minutes, right on schedule. She sat on the window sill, scanning the area for curious eyes or little old ladies hanging out their linens and checked her watch again; 5 minutes.  


She stood and stretched and pulled a silver cigarette case from her boot, taking one from the velvet lined inside and lighting it with a match. As she took a long drag she made sure to put the charred piece of wood back into the case before sliding it back into her boot and taking her position behind the gun. She glanced at her timepiece one final time, 2 minutes, and took another drag of her cigarette before setting it carefully on the window sill and looking through the scope.  


She was counting down now; 60 seconds, and she watched as the armored car pull into her line of sight and stop. 30 seconds, as the driver stepped out and moved to the passenger side. 15 seconds, as the suit exited the vehicle and reporters rushed forward. 10 seconds, as he shook the hand of some nameless official. 5 seconds, and she took a deep breath as he began making his way up the steps of the courthouse. 4 seconds, and he paused; 3 seconds, and he turned back to face the cameras. 2 seconds, and she exhaled slowly as the crosshairs found their target. 1 second, and they shared a smile. "Time's up, Senator," and she pulled the trigger.  


The .50 was dismantled and back inside its case before the innocent bystanders even had time to register that they were covered in brain matter and bits of skull, and by the time someone had managed to scream, "Call 911," she was exiting out onto the street and pulling a cell phone from her pocket, puffing happily on her cigarette as she typed, _It's done_ , and hit send. She cut through an alley as she removed the battery and sim card and tossed the empty shell down a storm drain before stepping out onto the street and hailing a cab. She gave the cabbie her address and sat back, making herself comfortable as she rolled the window down and casually hung her arm out, dropping the little pieces of plastic as the cab rounded the corner just in time for them to see half a dozen squad cars whipping through traffic, racing toward the location of her latest target.  


By the time the forensic team could determine that the origin of the bullet's trajectory was over a mile away, she would be sitting in her apartment, watching it all on the 6 o'clock news; and since she had made the bullet press, the gunpowder, and the shell, the fragmented .50 caliber round they would find would be virtually untraceable. The rifle itself had been stolen from a military base in Mississippi the previous year, so it would never be linked to her; and since no one ever paid any mind to the pretty little blonde with the guitar case, she had no chance of becoming a suspect at all.  


It was an easy 25 grand, and as the cab pulled up to her rundown apartment building, she gave a derisive little snort as she concluded that this particular career choice, as with the last, had become disappointing. SHIELD had proven to be corrupt, and being a mercenary was, truth be told, just a little boring. In the two years since the battle for New York, she had abandoned her post and attempted to start over. But a secret agent gone AWOL, who also happened to be a woman, was hard put to find any peace of dignity in normal society. So, she had made the decision to stick with what she did best, which was any and everything involving a dirty secret, a gun, and the right amount of money. She had been trained to be morally ambiguous, manipulative, and lethal and had no qualms in aiding with the disposal of society's garbage. She had lived too long and experienced too much to believe that the world had become anything less than a vile, rotting cesspool of weak-minded, power hungry, tyrants leading the blind.  


She stepped into her apartment, locking the door and rearming the silent alarm before making her way into her living room, sitting on the sofa and placing the guitar case on the coffee table in front of her. She turned on the television just in time to see the Breaking News marquee flash across the screen. She snorted again and shook her head. They'll all learn soon enough, she thought, as she opened the case and began pulling out pieces to clean. As she started swabbing the barrel she remembered being one of them, one of the sheep in the lions den.  


SHIELD had saved her, or at least that was what she had always been led to believe, and with nothing more than their word and vivid flashbacks of the tortures she had survived, she never questioned it. That had been her first mistake, trusting those that knew everything about her and whom she knew nothing about. Ignorance had not been bliss, and at the onslaught of revelations from the events of New York and the incontrovertable proof that nothing was as it seemed, she had begun to question everything. She hacked into SHIELD's top security files, having stolen a retinal scan from Fury under the guise of a routine physical, and then she had learned the truth. By the time any of the other agents noticed that something was amiss, she had copied the files, deleted them, and disappeared, disposing of anyone and anything that got in her way or could lead them to her. No longer would she march the beat of someone else's drum. She made her own rules now.  


She glanced up at the TV in time to watch the bullet hit its mark. It was like watching someone shoot a watermelon, and she really couldn't believe that they had agreed to air it. She finished cleaning the gun and put the pieces back in their respective homes, securing the latches on the case before moving to the hallway closet to put it away. She gave a great yawn and rubbed her hand over her face. She really needed a shower.

 

It was 2:30 in the morning and she was pulled from the first peaceful night of rest she had had in over a year by a soft beeping, the sound originating from somewhere in her living room. "ScheiBe," she groaned softly as she heaved herself out of bed to investigate, instantly alert as she grabbed the switchblade from under her pillow and made her way down the hall. The apartment was free of intruders, the beeping coming from the small back of computers set up in the corner of the room. The main screen was clearly being tampered with, some unknown, outside source controlling the mouse icon. It selected the Start tab, found Microsoft Word, and opened a new page. The screen was blank only for a moment before words began to appear. She moved forward quickly, checking the equipment for any obvious bug or bomb, before turning her attention to the words on the screen.  


One sentence, a statement. _"That was quite the shot."_ "Are you impressed?" she responded. There was no need for denial or secrecy. Whoever this was, they had gone to great lengths to find her, and now all she needed was enough time to determine if they were friend or foe. She set to work on a trace as the Unknown typed out a reply. _"I'd say splitting a man's skull from over a mile away would be impressive to anyone...especially for a woman."_ She moved to the window, checking that she wasn't being watched. There was no one, and she sat back down, typing, "You have my curiosity," while checking the trace. It was attempting to break through a double encryption cypher and she could only hope to stall the ghost writer long enough to get a lock. She looked at the screen again and read, _"Just your curiosity?"_ and then the screen began to flicker, and a recorded video feed replaced the word document.  


It was dated forty years previous, a security feed from what appeared to be a SHIELD observation room. A few technicians were bustling about, checking monitors and taking notes. In the center of the room, an 8'x5" cylinder, made of reinforced plexiglass with a titanium base, was housing what appeared to be a human figure, suspended in some sort of viscous fluid and attached to a number of various hoses and wires. A doctor entered, clipboard in one hand and tape recorder in the other. He addressed one of the techs, voices too low to make out anything other than mumbling, before he turned to face the camera. He held the tape recorder up to his mouth.  


"This is Dr. Alan Norman, data log #15. It is 08:30, August 13, 1975, and once again, we observe the progress of patient #053, codename: Valkyrie. Valkyrie has been kept here, at SHIELD's top biomedical research facility, in an induced stasis for the better part of the past three decades. This was a precaution, a step taken to ensure the safety of patient and faculty alike. Valkyrie's body and mind have been tampered with, altered at a molecular level, making her nearly impervious to the effects of time and nature, as well as enhancing her strength, stamina, and intellegence. SHIELD believes she could prove to be a great asset, as long as she poses no immediate threat. If we fail in our attempt to revive her and subdue her aggression, we will be forced to pull the plug. We cannot risk our safety or the safety of the common good. So, for her sake, I hope our efforts are not in vain."  


The screen flickered again and she found herself staring at the word document as though nothing had ever happened, the ghost writer already at work on anther message. Her mind was buzzing as the familiar feeling of nagging doubt coursed through her, urging her to throw caution to the wind, but this phantom knew her, better than she knew herself by the looks of things, and she read the next message three times before responding. _"What I'm offering is 2 million dollars, American, and a chance to recover your long lost past, all in exchange for the temporary use of your impressive skills._  
"Now you have my attention," she typed quickly.  


_"Your mission is a simple one. A number of tasks have been set before you, each one designed to test your strengths, uncover your weaknesses, and ultimately, prove your worth. Success will result in a new mission, failure will result in your demise."_   


She could not deny that the offer held a certain amount of intrigue, but two million bucks was a lot of money, regardless of the risks. "What's the catch?" she asked.  
 _"Complete your mission and reap the rewards...or die. $500,000 has already been transfered to your account. Just consider it your per diem, or should things go poorly, life insurance. Follow the coordinates to receive the details of your first task. You have 48 hours."_  


There it was, the catch. Either you do it, or you die. It was short, sweet, and to the point. She looked to the trace, knowing that her newest employer had anticipated the move and kept the conversation going just long enough to give her what she wanted. She grabbed the nearest pen and scrawled the coordinates on the back of her hand. Her position had been compromised, so yet again, it was time for her to disappear. She moved quickly; first to the kitchen, where she grabbed the stove and pulled it away from the wall to wrench the main gas line free, then back to the computer bank to wipe the main frame before sprinting to her bedroom. She threw on some clothes, sliding her boots on as she reached between the matress and box springs to retrieve her .9mm Beretta.  


The rucksack in the corner was packed for occassions such as these, and she rifled through it, finding the small case she was looking for and removing one of the chips from inside before returning it and slinging the sack over her shoulder. As she made her way back to the front of the apartment she threw her arm over her face, attempting to breathe in as little of the fumes as possible as she stuck the chip to the wall behind the stove. Thirty seconds later, she had made her way out the window, down the fire escape and across the street, strolling casually down the sidewalk as she pulled what appeared to be a small cigarette lighter from her pocket and flicked it. She barely flinched as the apartment exploded behind her. She lit a cigarette and looked at the numbers on the back of her hand. She had a train to catch.


End file.
